Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  Cecil decided he wanted to enjoy the moment and not respond right away. Take your time, he thought. Let them sweat it.

  The hand that the Latina had on his thigh had moved up higher and was on his crotch, massaging it gently and with great skill. She was certain she felt the “helmet” budge.

  “Let’s crack it up, Cecil. Blow is fucking up my nose.”

  Biggs, not unhappy to oblige, produced the baggy with the rocks. She moved, wanting to grab the baggy that he held beyond her reach in his right hand. He held the baggy back, above his head. He hadn’t liked the way she had made the powder disappear a moment ago and was determined not to let the same happen again. Pushy broads were always out to dominate the situation. Not if he had anything to say about it. You never, ever allowed a twat to control a cock and a pair of balls.

  He withdrew a rock from the baggy and handed it to Stella, who jammed it in her pipe. Had her torch out and going. She took short puffs. Pearleen stopped her dance routine long enough to nail her share of the crack. Got her hits, so did Marvin, and only then did they permit Lana to do her thing: Take that extended hit she was known for. Long and deep. She held it. Released it gradually. And loving it. She rested her head back against the futon, slumping back, enjoying the high, and soon enough was back to working on Biggs and making him feel good all over again.

  She had her right hand massaging the back of his neck, while her other hand was back over his crotch, until it was time to pass the stem again and her turn to hit it.

  Before they knew it, the glo was gone.

  “So where do you keep the rest of your stash, Cecil?” asked Stella Martel. “Got it hidden away pretty good, I imagine.”

  “Where you’ll never find it.”

  “Kidding aside,” said Lana. “Come on. You can tell us.”

  “What kind of fool do you take me for?”

  “How do you know it’s safe?” said Stella. “How do you know someone like Glassy Ortiz won’t try to break in one night to get his hands on it?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  The strippers were anxious to get the pipe going again. No matter how much they snorted, or how much they smoked, it seemed to Biggs, it was never enough. Something like his addiction to porn and violence, he supposed. Sex and torture. Only difference was, and it was quite a big difference, the dope they consumed tended to deplete his pocketbook.

  He was reluctant to abide. At least played it this way, for the moment. Let them “encourage” me, he thought.

  “Why we’re here, ain’t it?” whispered Lana in his ear. “Not entirely for this reason, but it is part of it, after all—ain’t it?”

  “That’s the main reason, as far as I’m concerned,” spoke out Stella. “Here to get fucked up.”

  “To smoke some crack,” said Pearleen Bell. “Or I’m out of here.” She stopped moving. Stood there, arms on her hips. “Call a cab, then.”

  “Easy now,” said Biggs. “This party’s just getting started.” And let Lana have the baggy and what remained in it. She fetched her own pipe from her purse, and stuffed the rocks in. Had her torch going. Resorted to her typical, drawn out hit.

  Stella snatched the stem from her and did her thing. Short puffs, but enough of them; then kept going and would not have stopped if Pearleen had not stepped in and taken it away from her.

  “Goddamn you,” said Pearleen Bell. “Now you’re behaving like Lana.” She managed a good hit, and handed the pipe to Marvin.

  “So you’re not telling us how much shit you got on hand or where it is, that it?” said Lana. “I understand. Just trying to decide if it’s worth hanging around and for how long. The idea is we stay so long as there’s dope to smoke. Once the dope is gone, so are we.”

  “Let me put it to you this way, I’m not dumb enough to keep enough drugs on the property in order to get busted for pushing.”

  “Pushing?” said Stella. “No one’s accusing you of pushing.”

  “I have enough to keep all of you happy for a while, but not enough to make it possible for Valley PD to put me away long enough to disrupt my life.”

  Muck held on to the stem and smoked the residue down. Once again. It was gone. In such a short time. And they wanted more. Wanted to keep their highs alive. As far as Biggs was concerned, it was no different from rolling up a twenty dollar bill, or a fifty, and putting a match to it.

  The dopefiends wanted more.

  “In a while.”

  Lana had his shirt unbuttoned and got it off of him. Was not at all surprised to see that he had his bulletproof vest on. Paranoid fuck never left his bedroom without it. She resumed the rubbing and kissing, the nibbling. He wasn’t hard down there, yet. Eventually, she was certain, he would be. Took him longer than most men. But she’d get him there. Persistence was the key.

  Biggs handed her a rock that he’d palmed in his hand. Lana grabbed the stem and stuffed the rock in. Sucked on the stem and was not about to relinquish it until she had the crack smoked down to nothing.

  Stella leaned in; with her left hand snatched the pipe away from her, while with her right she grabbed a good hunk of Lana’s thick mane and yanked it hard enough to pull the stripper not only away from Biggs, but cause her to tumble down off the futon.

  Lana Sepulveda’s retaliation was swift and strong, once she recovered, and flailed away at Stella’s face with her balled up fists. Then just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Lana’s hands and wrists must have been aching, because she was no longer throwing punches. And she should have left it there, but she didn’t feel like it, and spit at the other woman.

  Stella wiped her face, cursed “cunt” or something to the effect, and had both her hands back on Lana’s long hair and pulled and yanked with all her might until she had the Latina on the ratty carpet, and they rolled back and forth this way to Biggs’s and Marvin’s utter delight. They had a catfight taking place right before their very eyes—and it was a kick to see. Both thought so.

  Pearleen Bell didn’t. And got down between them and separated them and was not only strong and forceful enough to spread them apart, but stop it.

  “Look at you,” said Pearleen. “Should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “Ho caused it by hogging the stem,” said Stella.

  “I don’t need you to tell me how to smoke dope, bitch,” shouted Lana Sepulveda.

  “Grow up,” said Stella. “Learn to share. You’re not the only one here who wants to keep her high going.”

  “Oh, fuck you.”

  And it was about to start again. Pearleen intervened, pushing Stella back.

  Biggs stood up. He was grinning and holding up another baggy with some rocks in it.

  “Grab your pipe,” he said to Lana. “Follow me to the hallway john.”

  Eagerly so, she did, taking her purse with her—and flipped Stella the bird as she followed Cecil out of the living room. Stella shrugged Pearleen off of her. Was on her hands and knees carefully going over the carpet in search of rock crumbs that may have ended up down there.

  Pearleen was back on her feet, dancing. She was bobbing her head and smiling, determined to work her way back to feeling the way she felt before the fight broke out. It was free dope, and these dumb-asses didn’t even know how to enjoy it and have a good time. That wouldn’t be her. She was here to party—and that’s exactly what she was doing.

  CHAPTER 153

  Stella’s quest paid off: She discovered a rock the size of a kernel of corn, then another under the coffee table. She jammed them into her own pipe and was on the futon smoking. Marvin joined her soon enough, sitting down on her right.

  They shared. He was grateful.

  Stella waved the pipe in Pearleen’s direction, who shook her head. Did not want any at the moment; she was doing fine, moving to the music.

  “How about you, sugar-bush?” said Marvin to Olivia Duarte, knowing that she would turn them down, and did. Wouldn’t go near drugs, especially something as addictive as rock cocaine.


  Both Stella and Marvin shrugged their shoulders.

  “Stupid bitch has no idea what she’s missing,” Stella whispered in Marvin’s ear. The rocks in the pipe were smoked down, and she placed both of her hands on the back of Muck’s neck and began to massage and knead the width of the nape, just as she had done back at the club’s dressing room, the last time he stopped by to visit. This was how they were able to get over. Men were simple. Most times didn’t even have to have sex with them. Make them feel important. Stroke their ego and you didn’t have to stroke their dick. Usually.

  Olivia could not stand much more. Got up and stepped into the hallway.

  CHAPTER 154

  A fully clothed Lana Sepulveda emerged from the john rubbing the wetness out of her hair with a towel. Biggs soon followed, doing the same, running a towel over his head and face. Noticed Olivia Duarte standing in the foyer area befuddled and confused, nervous and uncomfortable, and thought to let her know about the altar and Prayer Hall on the second floor.

  “You’re welcome to go up.”

  “What denomination is your church?”

  “What denomination would you like it to be?”

  “I only wondered . . .”

  “I apologize. We are non-denominational.”

  She decided to take him up on his offer to visit the upstairs.

  “By the way, according to the cab driver . . . there was never any purse left in his cab when he dropped you off.”

  “I had my purse with me when I got in that cab, Mr. Biggs.”

  “All I can tell you is what I was told.”

  As she climbed the stairs on her way up, she heard Lana whisper something to him and laugh. They entered the living room and closed the door behind them.

  Olivia continued on, pausing now and then, taking in the coins that lined the walls and ceiling, the paper money. There was a sign that caught her eye:

  SEEK

  AND YE SHALL RECEIVE

  Receive what? Drugs? Perversion and general degeneracy? It made her shudder. She’d been so stupid to allow herself to get stuck in this situation. Part of it had been to spite Rudy, part of it had to do with knowing it would irritate Yolanda—and now she had to ride it out until Pearleen and her nutty friends were ready to leave.

  She reached the upstairs hallway. Doors to rooms were on the right. She entered the first one. The altar/Prayer Room was basically twice the size of the living room downstairs, and had been transformed into a hall for sermons/weddings/various celebrations and worship, with benches and folding chairs lined up in rows like pews in a church. There was an elevated dais to her right, the street side, the altar with a huge crucifix behind it. She took in the lectern. It wasn’t much: wooden fruit crates stacked three high, the cross on the crates nothing more than a couple of splintered pickets someone had nailed together. There was no denying it underscored the creepiness.

  Church?

  Denominational or not, a church should be neat and clean and have a sense of wonder and holiness about it. This was far from it. Decrepit and dingy were a couple of words that came to mind. Not to mention that odor that dogged you no matter what part of this place you happened to be in. True enough, it wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been on the first floor, but it was strong enough. If she had remained in that living room down there another second she would have surely started gagging.

  Olivia crossed herself. It was habit. Walked toward a black woman attired in a dark monk’s robe sitting in one of the folding chairs in the front row. The woman had a tough to ignore case of the shivers. In this warm weather? And seemed out of it in other ways: was off someplace by herself as she stared at the crucifix, past it, more than likely; only there was nothing to stare at beyond the crucifix but wooden shutters over windows with the iron crossbars.

  That was the other odd thing about the place: these inside shutters with crossbars on them and locks. What for? What was the purpose? Security measure? Or to prevent suicide attempts? To keep anyone from jumping? Didn’t know. It creeped her out.

  Olivia walked over. Said hi to the woman.

  “It’s cold in here.” Patience McDaniel never turned her head or moved her eyes away from whatever it was she was focused on.

  CHAPTER 155

  Marvin R. Muck felt like the luckiest Mack Daddy-wannabe around. Stella’s terms of endearment and affection had progressed to her actually unzipping his fly and taking his groin out and fondling him with her experienced and knowing fingers. The strokes had him full mast in hardly no time at all.

  Biggs, who sat on the same futon with Lana to the left of them, glanced in Marvin’s direction from time to time with a degree of envy he was not able to conceal no matter how much he tried. Muck was not only becoming stiff, the halfwit almost had “twiced” as much as he did down there.

  But then he turned away, and his eyes were back on Pearleen in the center of the room and the incredible evolving show she continued to put on for anyone wishing to ogle and obsorb.

  Lana had Cecil’s penis in her hand, caressing the helmet—for what good it did. He’d shot his load in the bathroom and there was no way he was going to be able to get off again this soon, not unless it involved additional blood or violence or both. She knew it well enough. Part of it, too, had to do with the meds.

  It didn’t matter, though. She wasn’t stroking his weenie, but his ego. Twisted jerk was lucky to have that, especially after what he’d put her through in the john just so he could get off. She had to put it behind her. One of the other chicks better go with him next time. She would see to that. Better believe it. Let Stella deal with it. See how she likes it.

  Her eyes, for the most part now, were on Pearleen, as were everyone else’s. Why not? There was always a step or two to be learned from the bitch, ripped off, to be used in her own routine. If she could. As capable a dancer as she knew herself to be, she had to admit Pearl was better. And “Stunning” Stella Storm? No competition there. Nearly as awful as Dione. Made her wonder what had happened to her, too. Small town hick chick just up and took off.

  Didn’t matter, did it? That was the business they were in. Dancers came and went. And one of the most popular the Valley had ever seen was doing her thing for them right now.

  Pearleen Bell, aka Peaches LaBelle, aka LaBelle of the Ball, among others, proceeded to mesmerize her audience. Had Trusty the Clown and Bozo Deacon, no doubt, taking in every gyration with bated breath.

  She possessed not only the innate ability to grind her pelvis and sway her hips in time to the beat, but the exquisite intuition to squeeze the most out of every salacious move of her outstanding body.

  She pivoted so that all eyes were on that fantastic behind and legs as she gave the rump slow, controlled rotations, and then slid her open palms down and over her buttocks, and when she turned, her hands were moving up along the inside of her upper thighs, inching toward the black panties and the mound of pubic hair within.

  She had had to shave off quite a bit of her bush for her act, otherwise it would have been impossible to wear a G-string on stage, only Pearleen did not always take all the hair off because she did not like to, didn’t like this area to be entirely devoid of fur, and she had also discovered over the years that men, a lot of men, liked bush in that area, that the sight of it excited them.

  Her hands continued to slide up toward the mound . . . as her hips continued to gyrate and then her pelvis began its rhythmic pumping.

  She had taken most of her clothes off by now and was down to the black bra and the panties, garter belt, fishnets, and black spike heels, and Biggs and Marvin could not get enough. Proof was there: Muck was like a steel rod down there, baton; Biggs, alas, far from anywhere near it. Not that Lana was giving up, though. Played with the hair on his chest that she was able to get to above the Kevlar, the lean belly below it, planting moist kisses and running her soft hands up and down the unwilling member.

  Biggs was enjoying himself, in spite of his stubborn penis. What the hell? That was some incred
ible blast-off he’d experienced in the john—and there would be others to come. He had the ways and means. He only wished he had the means of handling the one upstairs. Up there. In the Prayer Hall: Olivia Duarte. Wished he had the nerve to lock her in and keep her from leaving—ever. And the rest of them. Had that unlucky bitch Dione down in the cellar, and three more potential slave sluts here within reach.

  Well, Pearleen was here. She was doing it, too. Had been costly. He had lusted after her for so long, and here she was in his place again doing a strip for him the way she had done a few months back and that had made him want her all the more.

  Maybe not this time. Not this trip. The coke was working its magic on her. Bitch was hooked, like her dopefiend pals, no doubt —and he knew how it would all go pretty soon. Any day now the ebony beauty would be putting out, sexing him, giving him whatever he wanted, just so she could get her nose candy and crack. And as obvious it all was to him, the fact that he would be getting it eventually, for sure, it was real tough being patient, trying to feign patience, trying to pretend that blow jobs and shags (courtesy of Lana Da Bottom, and others) would suffice for the time being.

  Still, it was goddamned near impossible to act like everything was all right and normal when you had a couple of super hot and untouchable pieces of ass like Livia Duarte and Pearl Bell right in your own home, within reach—within such easy reach. It was one of the toughest things he’d had to do and live through. He wondered how long before he snapped and pursued his lust for blood and need for violence? How long before he grabbed Lana’s head and started punching her face in? What he’d put her through in the crapper a moment ago was nothing more than a primer and had whetted his appetite for the real thing.